Where To Begin
by Little Avalanche
Summary: "Inspiration strikes suddenly, and before you know it you're in the kitchen." Squint for Terqua!


_I was finally able to read the BBS novel translations, and when Aqua is revealed to be a baker... well, I couldn't help myself. :)_

* * *

"Your exam will take place first thing next week."

Those words have been echoing in your head since Master Eraqus dismissed you and your fellow trainees from practice last night. The three of you had spent a night stargazing, Ven trying too hard to make constellations out of the worlds to put a smile on your face, to ease Terra's nerves. You have no idea where the Master has gone since—he might have retired in his room, making last minute adjustments to _The Test_ or gone off to do a last minute errand to prepare for Master Xehanort's arrival.

You don't know where Terra or Ventus have gone to, either, though at least with them you have a clearer idea. Ven had nearly fallen asleep at the breakfast table after an unofficial final training session—that's enough to scare you, too, the finality of a _last _training session—and it's likely that he's gone back to bed for a few hours. You might not know where Terra _is_, but you know what he's doing; he's out training. If he's not eating or sleeping, he's out practicing. It's a dedication that you've always admired, even if sometimes you find it to be a bit excessive.

The Wayfinders you made were finished last night; you hadn't been able to sleep, and it had felt better to do things with your hands than lie in bed with the promise of _those words _in your head. You might be able to polish the glass, make the metal bindings gleam like starlight, but there's only so much shining you can do before you blind yourself.

Inspiration strikes suddenly, and before you know it you're in the kitchen. Between cram sessions and training and helping Ven and making those Wayfinders, baking has fallen to the wayside. Now seems like a good time to pick it back up again. You remember the rhythm even if it's been a while since you've done this—not too long, because everything is (mostly) where it should be.

In amongst bouts of kneading dough and cracking eggs, peeling apples and chopping up nuts, you let yourself go in the movements. There's a push and pull that draws you from project to project. For most of them, the timing is perfect, and you move effortlessly between buns and loaves that promise elegance and perfection; there are a few things that take you too much time, though, that throw off the timing of the others, and you know that the tarts are going to go bad before you even make it over there. But even when you're scraping the burned remains of a tart gone bad into the trash can, you can't feel bad. (Let's face it, even something a little—a _lot_—burned can still have some flavor.)

Ven comes to stick his nose in once, early in the process; he tries to help mixing batter and cutting strawberries—it might have been a flickering thing, but the thought to bribe the Master with a strawberry scone is tempting in its brevity—but only half an hour passes before he goes overboard with the mixer, spraying batter everywhere. You help him clean up and then pass him a plate of cookies, which he takes with a smile and bubbling "sorry!"s.

You lose track of time after that; there are a few close calls with burning doors, more than a few muttered "_Cure_"s, and more samples than are really necessary. But it's all part of the risk, and that's what you need right now. Before you know it it's near dinner and the kitchen is overloaded with treats. Smells blend all together so that, when you close your eyes and breathe it all in, you can't tell what's what. It makes you smile, and you take a few minutes to wipe the sweat from your face and just breathe it in.

There's enough food to feed an army. The way your boys eat, it means it'll all be gone in a week, tops.

There is no shortage of work that still has to be done: you have to eat the things you've made, first of all, or give them to the others. You have to wrap the things that won't be eaten. You have to clean all the bowls and equipment, and then put them away once they've dried. You have to—

"What did you do?"

The voice makes you jump, which only makes the stranger laugh. It's not really a stranger, though, you know this—there are only three other people in the castle with you, and so you know each person by their voice, their laugh, even when you don't see them. So you know, when you turn your head to shrug, that it's Terra who's just staring, bewildered by the organized chaos you've left in your wake.

"Baked," you say simply.

"I can see that," he says, walking further into the kitchen. He grabs one of the nut-flakes loaves and takes a huge bite out of it; you can hear it crunching in his mouth. Judging by the happy expression on his face it isn't horrible—you'll chastise yourself for the thought afterward; you've done enough baking for the four of you that there shouldn't be any doubt that you know how to make things the way the others like them—and you sneak a smile before turning back to judge the task at hand.

"'Ere you gon' 'art?" he asks between bites, the nuts cracking his words.

"Don't talk with your mouth open," you reply, and he laughs. "And I don't know."

He takes a few moments to reply, and when he speaks again it's without food in his mouth. "Take a break, Aqua."

You shake your head. "There's too much to do here."

"You want to spend tonight here cleaning? Really? It's one of the last nights we have. Take a break."

You can't help yourself; you flinch at the thought of the idea of being one of the last nights. There's a finality of that word, and it scares you to death.. Do you even know what's going to happen after the Mark of Mastery exam, where you'll go and what you'll do? The Master has told the both of you what happens next, you're sure of it, but you can't think you're so terrified of what happens when you get the Mark.

But then there's the other question that's even more frightening: what happens if you _don't_?

Maybe he's read your mind, because he comes over to stand right behind you. "Hey, hey," he says (the words tickle in your ear) and his hand presses firm against your shoulder to steady you. You take a deep breath, once twice five times, before nodding. "If you don't want to leave it for later, can I at least help?"

You can't quite say no to that.

Ven is drawn in, nose first, to the fruits of your labors, and in between bites of cookies and scones he helps to clean, too. The work passes with shaky laughter and smiles, and it feels like only minutes have passed when you all step back to look at the kitchen. It gleams back with reflections of your faces, only somewhat warped by the dent Terra left in it a few years ago.

The three of you each take a cookie—Ven tries to get away with half of a cake; you let him—and nibble on it contentedly, just enjoying each other's' company without needing to say much of anything. You talk about nonsense things, and somehow you're able to not think about next week and the implications of what it means.

Even though you're pretty sure Ven hasn't done much of anything today, he leaves you and Terra alone with tired eyes and a sleepy grin, his "stolen" cake still in his hands. The two of you laugh at the sight before turning to each other.

"We just have to relax," he says, and you wonder if he's saying it to you or to himself. "It's all going to be just fine."

After a pause, you nod. "Yes."

There isn't much else to say; any words you might have die in your throat before you can give them life, and from the looks of it Terra's having a similar problem. So you stand, the chair squeaking underneath, and stretch. "I'm going to go to bed," you say slowly, looking at him.

"Yeah. No offense, but you need it." You're almost offended, but you see the slight smile on his face and you can't help but smile back.

"You want to spar tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Sounds good."

"Okay," you say. You start to make your way back to your bedroom, but stop yourself to place a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for the help."

He freezes under your touch, for some reason, and looks at you with a strange expression on his face. It melts away before you can identify it—why is your heart beating so quickly?—and he nods. "No problem. Thank you for the treats."

"No problem," you repeat. "See you tomorrow?"

"First thing," he promises.

And for the first time in a day, those are the words that are in your head as you fall asleep.


End file.
